Every Flavour
by TuesdayNovember
Summary: TuesdayNovember's Every Flavour: a collection of unrelated drabbles and oneshots. Every character, every genre, every style - guaranteed to please. Chapter thirty: Bellatrix and Rodolphus experience increasingly horrifying delusions in Azkaban. Collection now complete.
1. Dirty Blood

**The venerated TuesdayNovember gladly presents**

_**Every Flavour**_

**A collection of unrelated drabbles, oneshots and challenge entries.**

**Guaranteed to please even the pickiest reader.**

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_"You want to be careful with those. When they say every flavour, they mean every flavour" - Ron Weasley, Harry Potter and t__he Philosopher's Stone_

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**I: Dirty Blood**

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"_Now Hermione, we're going to have to take a blood sample for testing," Dr. Mulligan's soothing voice washed over her. "Nurse Peters is going to take you into the other room, all right?"_

_Hermione nodded, trying to tamp down the flutter of fear in her stomach. She hopped down from the stool she had been seated on and followed the nurse out of the room._

_She was led down a dark hallway and into a small room painted in deep teal. _

_"Sit down there, Hermione," Nurse Peters said kindly, as she pulled something out of a bag beside her._

_She looked away._

_"It's going to hurt a little bit, but you're a brave girl."_

_She felt a sharp prick on her right arm, and a voice, one decidedly different from Nurse Peters', said, "Well, well. Who would have guessed?" _

_"Guessed what?" Hermione asked, trying to sound less nervous than she actually was._

_The voice was sneering. "__**Dirty blood**__."_

_She looked over at the needle, filled almost to the top with brown liquid._

_Draco smirked at her. "Just like I said."_

Hermione jerked awake, her heart pounding. Her red-gold sheets were a tangled mess around her, and her arms had been twisted together.

The nail of her index finger had been pressed so fiercely into her arm during her sleep that she could feel a sharp pain there. Looking down, she saw a purple, moon-shaped dent. Deep, dark and painful.

She took a deep breath and lay back down.

_I don't have dirty blood. I __**don't. **_She told herself. But for the first time, she wasn't sure.

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**Thoughts? I'd love to hear them!**


	2. Casual

**Written for Cheeky Slytherin Lass's 'Dictionary Challenge' at the HPFC.**

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**II: Casual**

Marked by blithe unconcern • without definite or serious intention • careless or offhand • passing

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James leaned against a cold marble pillar, running his hands through his hair, trying and failing to look casual. With a burst of cool, flowery-smelling air, the doors across the hall burst open, and a handful of Gryffindor girls pranced through, giggling. A few let their gaze linger on James, but they pushed past without hesitation.

At the centre of the throng was Lily Evans, and she didn't look at him once.

James scowled at no one in particular, and then, with typical Gryffindor brashness, shouted, "Hey Evans!"

The entire group turned to face him, parting down the middle to reveal the full form of the girl he'd called.

She looked half amused.

"Spare a minute, Evans? I need to talk to you," he said, sounding much more calm than he had dared hope. Almost, _almost_, casual.

She disentangled herself from the group, and they filtered off down the hall, leaving the two of them alone in the corridor.

"What?" she asked.

He grinned cheekily. "You know, there's a Hogsmead trip coming up," he said. "Care to go with me?"

"That's not until next month," she said, eyebrows raised ever so slightly in mixed amusement and incredulity.

His grin broadened. "I wanted to be the first to ask. So, what do you say?"

There was a pause, then, her eyes twinkling with mirth, she shrugged.

"I'll think about it," she said, lips twisting upwards with ill-contained humour, and continued down the hall.

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**Thoughts? Concerns? Want to slap me in the face with a codfish? Send me a review!**


	3. Mist and Dew

**Written for the DG Forum's OSS Drabble Challenge Three. Inspired by and including sentence #50, Rowan's **_"R__unning an art gallery was not everything Ginny had thought it would be; she still had to pay the electric billing, and the painting titled "Mist and Dew", which had set her back several thousands of Galleons last year, didn't look like it would sell any time soon- and then Draco Malfoy sauntered in.__"_

**This, uh, took at turn for the absurd near the end. I don't know why.**

**300 words**

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**III: Mist and Dew**

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Seven in the morning, and Ginny Weasley was, much to her chagrin, not in bed but standing in the centre of her gallery, giving instructions to a group of moving men. The newly discovered pseudo-post-avant-garde artist with a name she could barely pronounce would be having his opening in twelve hours, and there was still _so much_ to do.

Running an art gallery was not everything Ginny had thought it would be; she still had to pay the electric billing, and the painting titled "Mist and Dew", which had set her back several thousands of Galleons last year, didn't look like it would sell any time soon- and then Draco Malfoy sauntered in.

"That will have to be moved—"

"This is the art gallery, is it not?"

Ginny didn't bother turning around. "Yes, but we're not ope—"

"Where is the art, then?"

Ginny sighed. Some people were so _rude_. "We're changing the collections," Ginny turned to face the man interrupting her work. "There's a—_Malfoy?_"

The blond standing at the door arched an eyebrow. "Yes? There's a…?"

"An opening."

He made a noise of quiet derision and began to circulate the room.

"We're not _open_, Malfoy. I've a lot to do, so if—"

"Is that "Mist and Dew" those men are holding?"

Ginny signed and tried to keep her temper in check. "Yes, now if you could plea—"

"How much are you asking for it?"

Ah. Here, perhaps, her day might take a turn for the better. "Twenty thousand Galleons."

"That's too much. No one will buy that ugly thing for twenty thousand."

"_Malfoy_–"

"I'll give you fifteen thousand for it."

"Seventeen."

"Sixteen and dinner."

"Dinner doesn't pay my bills."

"Sharp, Weasley. Seventeen, then. And have it delivered to my house."

"Of course, Malfoy."

He had one hand on the doorknob when he turned back and said, "Oh, and Weasley? Green is a nice colour on you, but you may want to pull up your robes."

He smirked as she noticed the edges of her bra peering innocently from her décolletage.

Her cheeks burned as the door slammed shut.

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**Thoughts, O Gentle Reader? **


	4. Acceptable Use of Toads

**This was written for the fic exchange at xoxLewrahxox's forum, run by the lovely Estella May. My prompt, **"what toads should and should not be used for" **was given by Lamia of the Dark.**

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**IV: Acceptable Use of Toads**

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"Uh, Hermione?" Ron stood at the notice board in Gryffindor Tower.

Hermione, seated in her favourite chair, looked up at him. "Yes, Ron?"

"What is this?" he motioned to the piece of parchment written with angry red letters. "_Acceptable Use of Toads? _Hermione, why would we need this up here?"

Her eyebrows shot up to tickle her hairline. "You must be joking, Ron. Don't you know anything at all? Neville's toad has been _abused _these past few weeks. And as prefects, it's our job to make sure that doesn't happen anymore."

Ron snorted and pulled the parchment off the board. "Number one: No toad may be used for testing Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes products," he read.

"Yes, Ron. I caught one of the first years feeding Trevor a Puking Pastille just last night."

He couldn't help a bit of a smile quirking his mouth. "And? What happened?"

She glared at him.

"Fine, fine. What about this, though? Number four: No toad may be used to remove flies from the common room. What's so wrong with that?"

"What's so _wrong_ with that? One of the sixth year boys was _throwing_ Trevor at flies, Ron. _Throwing_ him."

He made no comment. "Alright, but Number eight is a bit absurd, Hermione. 'No toad may be used as a rolling pin?' What sort of idiot would do that?"

"Ask George," she said darkly.

Her tone boded no argument. He gulped and scanned the list. "Okay, Number thirteen: no toad may be used as a torture device. Bit strong wording, that," he said. "How in the name of Merlin are you going to torture someone with a _toad?_"

Hermione sniffed. "I caught McLaggen trying to put Trevor into Romilda Vane's hair last week. Her shrieks nearly deafened me."

"So you made a rule about it to preserve your hearing?"

"_No,_ I made the rule because that's not the right way to use a toad."

Ron snorted. "And what _is _the right way to use a toad, Hermione?"

She sat up a little straighter and said, as if reading from a book only she could see, "The Code of Acceptable Use for Familiars at Hogwarts states that toads and other amphibians may be used as subjects in Transfiguration, as tests for harmless potions, as sub—"

Ron cut her off. "I get it," he said. "Okay, Num—" he stopped, turning pink. "Uh, Hermione?"

"Yes, Ron?"

"Number twenty four."

"Yes," she said, trying to remain businesslike. "Number twenty four."

"Is that…_real?_"

The tips of Hermione's ears turned bright red. "Well…yes. It is."

"No toad may be used as a device for…" here his voice turned to a strained squeak, "_erotic pleasure_?"

Hermione shifted uncomfortably and looked down at her lap, cheeks burning. Her response was a quiet mumble Ron couldn't hear. Frankly, he wasn't sure he wanted to.

But curiosity got the better of him and he asked, "What?"

Hermione, very pink, looked up at him, then scanned the room before getting out of her chair and moving towards him. She murmured, "I really don't think you want to hear this."

Ron shook his head obstinately. "Tell me."

She took a deep breath, then leaned in to whisper in his ear, her voice wavering and cracking. Ron thought he could feel the heat of her embarrassment.

"I, well, you know how…McLaggen was torturing Romilda Vane?" Ron nodded, not trusting his voice. "Well, that night, as I was doing my rounds, I…I…well I…caught them together. And, oh, do I _really_ need to explain any further?"

Ron stared at her with bulging eyes. "But how does Neville's toad have anything to do with that?"

Hermione's expression said it all.

Ron, growing even more pink, mumbled something incoherent and left the room, handing the parchment to Hermione, not meeting her eyes.

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**Thoughts? Do tell.**


	5. Fire

**Written for Bangle-Babe's 'colours' challenge at xoxLewrahxox's forum.**

**Prompt: A vast range of colors exist, from blue to knock-my-socks-off pink. Your challenge is to pick one (or more) color(s) to play into your piece. It can be the clothing of the character, the color of the room, the color of the mood, anything! Fics should be multiples of 100 words, give or take a few.**

**100 words.**

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**V: Fire**

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Tom watches her with a crooked smile. He can feel every tingling breath of air that whispers around him, fetid and dank. His nerves twitch and quiver with the excitement of feeling again.

In the darkness of the Chamber, her hair glows like branding fire, and she moans.

She was shrieking before; his lips curl around the sound of a quiet chuckle, knowing he is the reason for her weakness.

He watches her chest rise and fall, the movements matching his own.

He likes to imagine that as he coils her soul into his, her hair will fade to grey.

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**Thoughts? Do tell.**


	6. Ice

**VI: Ice**

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The wind whispered around the castle. A sibilant hiss curling around spires and turrets, slipping, dark and cold, through the cracks. Past midnight, the moon hung suspended on a black curtain of sky, devoid of stars.

Within the walls a muted crescendo was building and fading; too soft, without any passion, it fizzled and died in a hopeless anticlimax. Ginny rested her head on a pillow not her own, half content to listen to the breathing of her already sleeping lover. She watched the crimson curtains flutter with a soft breeze and tried not to think of betrayal.

An owl alighted from a turret far above them and circled the grounds, watching for movement below. Wings beating against the wind, it soared towards the dark forest.

Draco saw nothing of the bird that passed overhead and darkened the moon's glow. He stood before a youthful young maple, pale bark ending in a halo of russet leaves, and fingered the cold knife within his hands. The world was asleep – all but her – while he took his too-weak revenge.

Draco's breath clouded the frosty air; he drew the blade slowly across the smooth white bark of the sapling, one mark for each dalliance, wishing the tree were her.

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**Thoughts?**


	7. Accidental Magic

**Ideas just come out of nowhere. I hope you enjoy!**

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**VII: Accidental Magic**

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Narcissa Black is five years old, sitting on an ornate wrought iron bench, playing with her newest toy. It is made of bright and shining metal and looks rather like a camera. She finds that pressing her eye to the hole, however, displays moving pictures of faraway lands and beautiful dancers.

It is bright outside, and her mother is entertaining Mrs Malfoy and Mrs Parkinson further in the expertly maintained English garden. Narcissa finds her mother's friends dull, and much prefers the company of her sisters. But today, Andromeda is inside dancing and no one quite knows where Bellatrix is. So Narcissa sits on the ornate bench, peering into her new toy. She finds, however, that the images are dull and faded. They aren't as vivid as she knows they should be, and she knows, suddenly and more forcefully than anything she has known before, that the pictures will be much more clear in darkness.

She looks up. A few wispy cirrus clouds decorate the azure sky.

Narcissa pouts. She wants to play with her new toy _properly_. She wants to be able to see the pictures clearly. More than anything, she wants the sky to be plunged into darkness.

She scowls at the heavens, glaring at the mare's tails that do so little to help her. And as she watches, the thin wisps begin to grow. They morph quickly from thin and light to dark and forbidding, threatening rain and darkening all below.

Narcissa stares at them, both terrified and excited.

She presses the toy to her face, watching in glee as the images whirl brightly before her. But soon she grows tired of playing with her toy, and she wants to play in the garden. She wants it to be sunny. She glares at the clouds again, willing them to return to the way they were.

Nothing happens.

She waits, continuing to glare up at them. But minutes pass, and nothing changes.

She lets out a wail, and her mother is soon by her side, saying, "What's wrong, Narcissa?"

She hiccoughs around her tears and chokes out, "Clouds! The clouds!"

Druella leads her daughter inside, Mrs Malfoy and Mrs Parkinson following her. Narcissa is sat on an ottoman, lips quivering, and an elf is sent for a glass of lemonade.

Mrs Malfoy kneels down to Narcissa's level and says, her voice soft and soothing, "Don't you worry about those clouds, dear. They'll go away soon."

But Black Manor remains in darkness for a very long time after that.

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**Thoughts?**


	8. First Kill

**Written for Lamia of the Dark's 'crossover and/or bunnies' challenge at xoxLewrahxox's forum.**

**Prompt: **Your fic MUST be crossed over with another fandom. It can be any fandom you want, but it must be an actual crossover ... For those of you who have no other fandoms besides Harry Potter, you may write a 100 or 500 word drabble involving rabbits.

**500 words.**

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**VIII: First Kill**

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The Dark Lord holds it out before her, squirming and thrashing, but Bellatrix hesitates. She is skilled, yes, and powerful, and there is much she has accomplished, but she has never killed.

_Start small, _he had said, in that high, sibilant voice that made her tremble with fear and want. And he made her catch a rabbit.

It hadn't been hard, of course. The rough moorlands around the Manor were infested with them, breeding madly, eating everything. She had taken it back to him, and now he is holding it out before her; waiting, his patience waning, for her to kill the thing within his hands.

_You need to mean it, _he had said, and to prepare her, had found an old Muggle book; she never asked where he found it, and he never supplied the information. A small thing, a children's book, really, about some rabbit with a common name gorging himself on stolen vegetables. _Disgusting._

Being in such close quarters with it had made her sick with fury, but the Dark Lord had made her read it too, and by the time she had finished, she was trembling with ill-concealed rage.

Her wand is pointed at the rabbit now, and she sees the book on the table, lying white and complacent, ignorant of her hatred. She raises her wand a fraction and watches the rabbit straining for escape. She nearly laughs at the sight of her Lord holding it, but controls herself.

_Start small; mean it._

She narrows her eyes at the creature and brings her wand down in a slashing arc, hissing, "_Avada kedavra!_" and watching a jet of green light catch the thing, falling limp.

It is only after the Dark Lord tosses it to the floor that she thinks how dangerous it was. A fraction of miscalculation and it could have been _him_ she hit.

The thought nearly makes her sick – or is it murder? No. No, it is not that.

"You've done well, Bella," he says, and she feels a shiver, as if ethereal feathers were brushing across her neck.

"Thank you, my lord," she murmurs, bowing her head in respectful acceptance of his praise.

"And the book?"

Her eyes flick from his to it. "My lord?"

"What do you wish to do with it, Bella?" There is something of a hard edge around his question, and she knows she should have understood him sooner. But she does not apologise. She is not _weak._ She has killed.

"Destroy it, my lord."

"Then do so," he tells her, and seeing the look in her eyes, adds, "the Killing Curse will have no effect. It is not alive."

She nods. "Yes, my lord."

"You will be summoned again tomorrow. Bring a dog." With that, he sweeps out of the room.

Bellatrix watches him leave and she plucks the book from the table.

She tosses it into the fireplace, watching as the flames lick at it, making the prettily illustrated pages curl and brown, before Apparating away.

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**For those of you curious, or who didn't recognize it, the 'Muggle book' is Beatrix Potter's _Peter Rabbit. _**

**Thoughts?**


	9. Filth

**Written for Expecting Rain's 'cruel and unusual pairings' challenge at xoxLewrahxox's forum. **

**Prompt: **There are some strange pairings out there, and then there are some which can only be described as "cruel and unusual." . . . Your challenge is to write one of these cruel and unusual pairings, and to write it as seriously as you can.

**WARNING: **the story that follows contains sexual content, violence, coarse language, and various other, more unpleasant, things that I _do **not** condone._

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**IX: Filth **

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**I: Filth**

Argus was crouched in the dirt, watching a muddy worm squirm and coil on the end of a stick. He was nine. Small for his age, smeared with mud, leaves in his hair and the brown, barefoot look of a child that spent too much time outside.

He looked nothing like his brothers.

Abelard and Angus were older than he – Abelard would be starting his third year at Hogwarts in September, and Angus would be starting his first. They had friends in the village – proper wizard friends who played with them during the summer, and that was where they had been before they returned home that warm summer day.

Abelard and Angus didn't much like their younger brother, and took every opportunity to show it.

Argus was entranced by the worm and didn't notice his brothers returning, hopping the low wooden fence encircling the property and surrounding him, darkening the ground with their shadows.

"You're a _Squib!_" Angus taunted, kicking a bit of dirt into his face. "Dirty Squib playing in the dirt."

Argus dropped the stick, trapping the worm under it.

"_Filth,_" Abelard said. "You know what us Slytherins say about your kind? They say you _ruin_ the world." He shoved his youngest brother roughly. "A stain on the family tree, you are. It's a good thing your only friends are worms," Abelard finished, grinding the worm into the ground with the heel of his shoe.

Angus laughed.

"I'll tell Mum!" Argus cried, trying to hit his brothers.

"No you won't," Abelard said, withdrawing his wand and pointing it at his youngest brother's chest.

Argus started to cry, and his brothers sniggered. "Cry baby," Angus said, and the two of them went inside.

When Argus woke up the next morning, he found a note written in mud across his desk: _A little stain on the House of Filch makes a Filth. Argus Filth._

**II: School**

When Argus turned eleven, his parents decided it was time to send him to school. There was a school for Squibs not far from their home, where children were taught the basics of arithmetic and writing, along with Divination, for the common belief was that many Squibs became powerful Seers.

Such would hardly be the case for Argus.

On his first day, his parents dressed him in his Sunday best, parted his hair neatly and sent him off with a kiss on the forehead. The walk to the school covered his polished shoes in a thin layer of dirt and the startling heat detached licks of his black hair from his head, making him look like a sprouting plant.

By the time he got to the school – a red brick monstrosity glaring like a wound out of the countryside – he looked like a street urchin, no different than the other Squibs.

One girl was crouched in the dirt, pulling a snail out of its shell with dirty fingers.

"What you doing?" Argus said.

The girl shrugged and showed him the snail.

A loud bell rang above them, and the children swarmed to the door. Argus and the girl got up slowly.

"What's your name?" she said.

"Argus."

"I'm Nora."

They followed the throng of children into a blue painted room and Argus sat beside her, looking bewildered. "'Ave you ever been to a proper school? I 'aven't, see…"

"Yeah," Nora said, "I was at a Muggle school couple years ago. It's right dull."

Argus opened his mouth to speak, but the teacher called for silence and began calling out the attendance. Argus looked over at Nora in confusion.

"You got to say 'present' when she says your name," she whispered.

He did, feeling proud of himself – a rare feeling indeed. But the teacher had gone through the list of students and never read out Nora's name.

She squirmed awkwardly beside him.

"Is there anyone whose name I haven't called?"

Nora put up her hand slowly, and the teacher scanned the list. "What's your name, dear?"

"Nora Brown."

"There's only a Norris Brown on the list. Is that your brother, maybe?"

"Got no brother," she mumbled.

It took some time, but the teacher eventually realized that an erring secretary had miswritten her name.

The other children teased her for it, calling her Norris the Tortoise (because they thought her _slow_) for the rest of the year and pinching her arms in the corridors as they hissed their disdain.

**III: Changes**

The realization came slowly, but by the end of their first year, Argus and Nora knew that they only had each other, and by the end of their seventh, that they didn't want any others.

"Are you sure?" Argus whispered, his hot breath kissing her jaw.

"Yes – _yes,_" she dragged her nails across his back in desperation.

_Pressure – pain – pleasure _

And coherent speech – thought, even – became impossible. Gasping and moaning became their vocabulary, bliss their only currency.

Neither heard the door.

"For fuck's sake! You disgusting _shit_, what –"

The two moved quickly, but not quickly enough to notice that Abelard was holding a wand, and that he couldn't control it.

For the first time since he was ten, Abelard was overcome by a wave of accidental magic. A pulse that glowed and shot forth from the end of his wand, hitting Nora in the chest, cracking her skull on the headboard, and, most horrifying of all, transforming her still twitching body into that of a calico cat, fur matted with blood.

_Dead._

**IV: Secret**

"Mrs Norris?" Argus called into the darkness of his room, clenching his hands into fists and fighting to keep his voice steady.

The cat responded with a low purr and wound herself around his legs.

"Yes," he murmured. "Yes, you're my little Nora, aren't you? My dear, sweet Nora."

The cat stared up at him, eyes like yellow globes.

He bent down to pick her up, cradling her in his arms and kissing her head, stroking her, whispering his affection with fetid breath.

"You're my Nora," he groaned, holding her close as his body shuddered. "Perfect – little – _pussy…_"

His eyes rolled to the back of his head, and the cat leapt from his arms with a low growl, cleaning herself of what mess she imagined had stained her.

Argus, spent, sagged into a chair and pulled Mrs Norris onto his lap, stroking the cat with calloused hands.

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**Please do tell me what you thought of this. **


	10. Not Just a Schoolgirl

**Written for Lady Eleanor Boleyn's 'secrets' challenge at xoxLewrahxox's forum.**

**Prompt: **Write a fic with a word count of more or less an exact multiple of 100 words dealing with a HP character (or characters) and a secret of some sort. They can be sharing secrets, keeping them, discovering them, or anything else you like, as long some sort of secret is involved.

**1,600 words.**

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**X: Not Just a Schoolgirl**

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Narcissa peered around the library door, hesitating a moment before raising her ivory index finger to tap gently on it. The sound echoed in the largely empty room.

Her sister looked up from a piece of parchment, tossing black curls over her shoulder. Seeing her pastel-clad youngest sister in the doorway, Bellatrix put down her quill and said, "Cissy? Coming into the _library_? Do you have a fever?" she put a hand to her mouth in mock horror and concern.

Narcissa frowned and flowed into the room, enveloped in the almost cloying scent of wildflowers. "Bella –"

"Not in the mood for jokes, Cissy?" she said languidly, arching her back like a cat over the back of the chair so that her long curls tickled the dark wood of the floor.

"I just…I have something I need to…ask you, I suppose," Narcissa said, looking at her feet awkwardly.

Bellatrix sat up and turned towards her. "You're not …?"

"Heavens no!" she cried. "No, this is…this is different."

Bellatrix arched her eyebrows. "Care to tell me what this different thing is?"

She scowled. "Yes, I do. I just…" she sighed, "I don't want this to sound silly."

"Just say it, Cissy," Bellatrix said, her patience waning.

"I…well, you know how I feel about Lucius," she said, blushing slightly. "But…I feel like he still thinks of me as a child. I'm seventeen, for Merlin's sake, but he still acts like he's with a little schoolgirl around me!"

Bellatrix snorted indelicately. "You _are_ a schoolgirl, Cissy."

She glared. "That's not the _point_, Bella. The point is that he still thinks of me as a child!"

Bellatrix shrugged. "Then do something to show him you're not a child anymore, Cissy. This isn't Advanced Transfiguration, it's just common sense."

•••

"Abraxas, Lucius, such a pleasure you could make it," Druella said, smiling sweetly to the guests and ushering them into the drawing room. "Please, make yourselves comfortable." She swept onto an ornate settee and patted the cushion beside her, motioning for Abraxas to sit with her. "I'm so sorry Cygnus wasn't able to be here, but you know how the Ministry can be sometimes, Abraxas," Druella continued, lulling him into comfort with a dazzling smile.

Lucius remained standing, slightly uncertain as to where he ought to sit, until Narcissa caught his eye and motioned for him to sit by her. "Hello, Lucius," she said, smiling up at him, trying not to turn too pink.

"Narcissa," he said, inclining his head slightly. "How are you enjoying school? You're doing your NEWTs this year, aren't you?"

Narcissa had to fight the urge to scowl at his dull, safe questions. She was more than just a schoolgirl – why couldn't he _see _that? "Oh school is going quite well, of course. Though I'm afraid I've rather outgrown it, you know." She paused to flick a lock of golden hair over her shoulder. "I'll be glad when the year is over."

Lucius made no comment. "Are you having a good Christmas break?" he asked instead.

She suppressed a sigh. "Yes, quite, thank you for asking. Are you?"

"Very much so."

The two lapsed into silence, and Narcissa glanced over at Bellatrix, deep in conversation with her mother and Abraxas Malfoy. The silence between them, tempered by brief glances and awkward sidelong smiles, was broken by the arrival of an attendant elf announcing that dinner was ready.

Druella rose first, leading her daughters and her guests into the dining room. She took her place at the head of the table in her husband's absence and motioned for Abraxas and Lucius to sit beside her. Trying to contain the coiling thrill of fear and excitement blooming and twisting in her stomach, Narcissa sat beside Lucius, trying and failing to catch her sister's eye for reassurance.

A line of house elves appeared along the walls behind them with soft pops, stepping forwards in unison to serve a steaming veal consommé to the five impeccably dressed people at the table. Druella smiled over her spoon and reengaged Abraxas Malfoy in conversation. Bellatrix scooped the thin truffle shavings into her spoon, drained them of broth and nibbled at them, safe in the knowledge that her mother was too absorbed in discussion to notice her improper behaviour. Lucius and Narcissa, of course, would say nothing.

Narcissa, unfortunately, was much too nervous to attempt to engage Lucius in discussion, and as Bellatrix was absorbed in her truffles, they languished in silence together for some time.

Narcissa frowned over her soup, over her salad and over her sorbet, finally gaining the confidence she desired as an elf slid a plate of duck à l'orange in front of her. Its warm, delicate scent calmed her, and as she fixed her face into an impassive mask, fighting to keep the red heat from her face, she put a hand on Lucius's thigh.

He was startled; though he was sure not to show it on his face, Narcissa noticed with interest the way his muscles tightened and jumped beneath her fingers. Fighting against a sudden wave of fear and elation that made it impossible to even think of eating the savoury dish before her, she slid her hand higher, stopping only when she felt the slight swell that indicated she had found what she was looking for.

Lucius stiffened – perceptibly this time – but both he and Narcissa were glad to notice that no one was paying them the slightest attention.

Narcissa felt her cheeks and the tips of her ears growing hot, and she was afraid someone might notice. She could barely take a bite of the food. She pushed a few asparagus heads around her plate but brought none to her mouth.

Fighting to keep herself in control, she shifted her position slightly, moving a bit closer to Lucius. She was still too far way to go about her plan properly, and noted that she wouldn't be able to move any closer to him without attracting attention.

She spread two fingers apart, taking what she could between them and marvelling inwardly at the surprising warmth. More shocking yet was the way it seemed to _grow_ beneath her fingers as she ran them along his length as best she could. There was something startlingly pleasant about it, and she had to fight to keep from breaking out into a smile.

With her free hand, she brought a piece of asparagus to her lips as coolly and naturally as she could, all the while maintaining gentle pressure.

"Narcissa?" Lucius said after a time, his voice soft and oddly constricted.

"Yes?" she said, smiling airily at him.

"How are you…ah…enjoying your Christmas break?"

"I'm enjoying it very much, thank you. It's quite…" she hesitated a moment, "_pleasurable_. To, um, be on holidays."

Deciding she wanted to experiment, she closed her fingers tighter and pressed down a bit harder. She was thanked by a sharp intake of breath, and decided to continue in this fashion. She didn't have long, however, for shortly thereafter, Lucius's hand found her wrist and gripped it tightly, halting her ministrations.

"Mrs Black," he said, "I do apologise, but I was hoping I might be given leave of the table for a short period of time."

Druella smiled indulgently at him. "Of course, Lucius," she said.

He rose, and Narcissa was thankful that his robes were loose enough not to show the bulge she had created.

Trying not to blush or smile, she bent her head over her plate and took a few small bites of the duck, still not feeling hungry.

•••

"Goodnight, Abraxas, Lucius, it was so nice of you to have come for dinner," Druella said, pressing feathery goodbye kisses to their cheeks and seeing them off, her daughters standing politely beside her.

When they had gone, Druella turned away with a heavy sigh and swept from the room, Narcissa and Bellatrix following. "Did you have a good time, girls?"

"Yes, Mother."

"Oh yes, Mother."

"Very good, very good. Though I'm rather appalled at Lucius's manners. Leaving in the middle of dinner like that…" she clicked her tongue disparagingly and continued, "I'd have thought his father would have taught him better than that." Having reached the grand central staircase, Druella turned to look at her daughters. "Narcissa, are you quite alright? You're looking a bit flushed, dear, and I saw you hardly ate any of your dinner."

Narcissa turned even more pink with the question. "Oh yes, Mother, I'm quite fine. Just feeling a bit warm."

"Hm. Well nevertheless, girls, it's quite late and more than bedtime, I should think. Off you go, then. Goodnight." She kissed each daughter in turn and sent them upstairs before retiring temporarily to the drawing room for a glass of brandy before bed.

Narcissa opened the door to her room and was greeted by cool, fresh air. Finally allowing her smile to break free, she sank onto the bed, only to jump up again with a cry of shock. She had sat on something – a distinctly _pointy_ something. She took the thing in her hands and saw in the moonlight that it was a piece of parchment folded into the shape of a – she squinted, trying to recognize the figure – peacock.

Unfolding it delicately, she took it to the window, leaning against the wall to read the note by bright and icy moonlight.

_"Pure Perfection" is the password to my personal Floo. I hope you come to call sometime soon._

_ -L Malfoy_

The smile on her face broadened, and she didn't stop smiling until she was fast asleep, dreaming of sweet things indeed.

* * *

**Thoughts? Do tell.**


	11. Secrets

**Written for Lady Eleanor Boleyn's 'secrets' challenge at xoxLewrahxox's forum.**

**Prompt: **Write a fic with a word count of more or less an exact multiple of 100 words dealing with a HP character (or characters) and a secret of some sort. They can be sharing secrets, keeping them, discovering them, or anything else you like, as long some sort of secret is involved.

**100 words.**

* * *

**XI: Secrets**

* * *

Bulrushes bend their dark heads towards the water, whispering their secrets into its murky depths with the wind.

Andromeda sighs, closing her eyes and feeling the sun kissing her cheeks. With Ted beside her and the sun shining its beneficence on them, she can almost forget the rules she's breaking.

She rolls onto her stomach to face him, gazing at him through half closed eyes. "Can I tell you a secret?"

"Of course."

"I think I love you."

He kisses her. "I _know_ I love you."

(_She never stops to think of what this means until it's much too late._)

* * *

**Thoughts? **


	12. Tears

**Written for Lady Eleanor Boleyn's 'secrets' challenge at xoxLewrahxox's forum.**

**Prompt: **Write a fic with a word count of more or less an exact multiple of 100 words dealing with a HP character (or characters) and a secret of some sort. They can be sharing secrets, keeping them, discovering them, or anything else you like, as long some sort of secret is involved.

**100 words.**

* * *

**XII: Tears**

* * *

Draco finds her in a mess of black robes and black hair on a white bed.

He opens the door to this chaos of sight and sound – something wavering and cracking and _crazy_ that rends the air in pieces with sobs that are almost shrieks.

And he says, _Aunt –?_

She looks up, eyes unfocussed, and he wonders who she sees – surely not him. Surely not.

And she hurls curses that splinter the door and sending him running.

Because he's seen the black bars of her eyelashes wet and plastered together with tears.

Because he's seen her weakness. Her secret.

* * *

**Thoughts?**


	13. Lies and Betrayal

**Written for Lady Eleanor Boleyn's 'secrets' challenge at xoxLewrahxox's forum.**

**Prompt: **Write a fic with a word count of more or less an exact multiple of 100 words dealing with a HP character (or characters) and a secret of some sort. They can be sharing secrets, keeping them, discovering them, or anything else you like, as long some sort of secret is involved.

**500 words.**

* * *

**XIII: Lies and Betrayal**

* * *

I am a dead man.

I wait for the moment when my betrayal will be discovered, and I will be killed. I expect it, and I have no fear – no false illusions of a glorious death, but still no fear.

I'm doing the _Right Thing._

For years I have served under lying, traitorous, half-blooded master. A master who has spent what feels like a lifetime deceiving us, torturing us, subjugating us, _lying_ to us, in the basest, most deceptive ways.

The first hints of things simply not being _quite right_ came only a few months into my service as one of his Death Eaters. Since childhood I had always been fascinated by family trees. Who was related to whom, what names were reused through time, whose blood was purest – all things I loved. It was an activity my parents approved of – encouraged, even. And I found myself in the possession of a number of books of lineage, books that traced the ancestry of every Pureblood family in Europe. Books that I had very nearly memorized.

But like all things, recognizing inconsistencies in what one has learned by rote is something that often takes time. And for me, it took months before I began to question the Dark Lord. _Who_ had he been, before his transformation? Certainly not a Mudblood, for no Mudblood could be so powerful, and of course the thought of a Mudblood fighting for our cause is laughable.

And so for a time I searched – first for Pureblood wizards of English descent, then finding no plausible matches, for others. The lists were nearly endless, and the search took a miserably long time – narrowing down such wide lists was torturous. And then I heard him say it – _he was the direct descendent of Salazar Slytherin himself._ Yes, I thought, that must make him Pureblood. But how had I missed him in my books before?

It took months – many arduous months where every spare moment was spent studying my books. But no, there was no mistaking it – my lord and master, descendant of Salazar Slytherin, had the dirty blood of _Muggles_ running through his veins.

I – _I_, Regulus Arcturus Black, had been serving under a master who had deceived us, his most loyal, most _pure_ followers into thinking he was among the worthy ones.

The time it took for me to plot my revenge was long, for no good plan comes easily, but come it did. For I came to know of the Dark Lord's horcrux, his plan for immortality, and I knew at once that if I could destroy it, I could destroy him.

I will die, yes, and soon, but I know that his secret cannot stay one for long. And when he has been destroyed, as I have ensured, cousin Bellatrix will take up her rightful mantle and lead our kind to victory.

_Lord Voldemort_ is only the grandiose moniker of a half-blood who dared to betray us.

It is the _Blacks_ who will cleanse the world.

* * *

**I seem to have some sort of fascination with abusing Regulus, because every time I write him, I seem to put him in the most awful positions. Poor boy.**

**Thoughts?**


	14. Of Marriage and Princes

**Written for Lady Eleanor Boleyn's 'secrets' challenge at xoxLewrahxox's forum.**

**Prompt: **Write a fic with a word count of more or less an exact multiple of 100 words dealing with a HP character (or characters) and a secret of some sort. They can be sharing secrets, keeping them, discovering them, or anything else you like, as long some sort of secret is involved.

**400 words.**

* * *

**XIV: Of Marriage and Princes**

* * *

"I know something you don't," Narcissa says proudly. At six years old, she has a very keen sense of pride.

She is speaking to Lucius, who's ten and who, though she never admits it, she believes to know everything.

"It's probably something stupid, like what your mum's going to wear to my party."

She scowls. "It's not! It's a big secret, and _I _know it."

This piques his interest. "What sort of secret?"

"I can't tell."

"_Narcissa!_"

"Well, it wouldn't be a secret if I told you."

He glances around. They are alone in the Malfoy's gardens, waiting for their mothers to finish their tea. "You can tell me," he says, "because I won't tell anyone else. So it's still a secret."

She frowns, but this logic makes sense to her, so she leans towards him and whispers, "Andromeda's going to _marry_ you!"

Lucius jumps back. "_What?_ Why would she do that?"

She shrugs. "I don't think she knows yet. I heard Maman saying it."

"That's impossible," Lucius tells her with conviction.

"Why?"

"Because Rabastan said _he_ was going to marry her. And plus, I don't like Andromeda."

"Who's … _Rastaban?_"

"_Rabastan. _My cousin. He's French."

"That's a stupid name."

Lucius makes a noncommittal noise. "So you're wrong then."

"I'm not!" she cries. "I heard Maman telling your mum about it! She said…she said something that she couldn't wait until our families were joined. And I know what that means. It means you get married. And she can't have been talking about Bellatrix, because she's never going to get married, she said so. So it _must_ have been Andromeda!"

"What about you?" he says, making a face.

Narcissa sticks her nose haughtily into the air. "Of course they didn't mean me. _I'm_ going to marry a _prince._"

Lucius quirks him mouth up, first in a smirk, then in an attempt to control his laughter. Finally, he bursts, "_You? _Marry a prince? What prince would want to marry _you?_" and laughs until he sees her lips wobbling, a telltale sign that she is on the verge of tears.

He almost feels contrite when he notices, and perhaps that is why he stops laughing.

•••

"Oh, darling," Druella says, "look at them. Such little dears. And they get along so well. My little Narcissa has made Lucius laugh."

Mrs Malfoy beams. "And to think Orion wanted Narcissa to marry that Russian prince."

* * *

**Thoughts?**


	15. Devour

**Written for Lady Eleanor Boleyn's 'traditions' challenge at xoxLewrahxox's forum.**

**Prompt: **Write a story of more or less a multiple of 100 words involving one or more characters and a tradition.

**800 words.**

* * *

**XV: Devour**

* * *

_The female of the Mantodea, or the Praying Mantis, is nearly twice as large as the male._

Today is the day she marries her first husband. Tradition dictates that she be dressed in a gown of white, laced with the colours of her future husband's family. As such, her white robes are trimmed in purple. She thinks the colour is flattering on her, and she has threaded a strand of purple silk into her hair. It catches the light and shimmers.

She feels a great swelling of pride when she looks in the mirror. It elates her, elevates her, makes her seems even larger than she truly is.

The others will see her like this too. Amazonian with greatness. They will be torn between awe and horror when they see her walking towards her future husband, the tiny man who seems to shrink beside her. He is easily ignored, and all attention will be focussed on his statuesque bride.

She walks towards him with nothing in her eyes. No joy, certainly no tears, only empty, staring orbs of the darkest brown he has ever seen. Sometimes he wonders if the pupil has devoured the iris. He thinks that she looks much taller than she is. Maybe two and a half metres tall. He knows it is impossible.

But she has become engorged by the pride and greatness of the moment and perhaps she has grown, on some not-quite-physical, but still perceptible level.

Every eye is on her, and every glittering eye is filled with envy.

She vows that she will never let go of this new greatness.

_ She is known to engage in sexual cannibalism during or after copulation. _

On their wedding night, it is traditional for the newly married couple to consummate their marriage. She watches him remove his robes with cold and appraising eyes. She sees nothing in his naked form that she wants, but she does not break tradition, and the room is slowly filled with wet heat and harsh, strangled groans.

She lies limp and unresponsive on the bed, unmoved and waiting for him to finish. When he does, his hair hanging loose and sweaty around his forehead, he smiles at her. She smiles back, no emotion in the gesture, and recalls her newfound grandeur. She stands, a bit achy, a bit uncertain on her feet, completely nude. The grandiosity of her being has not left, and she commands him with her presence. His eyes follow her across the room, where she plucks a robe from the discarded pile and throws it loosely over her shoulders, doing nothing to hide her nakedness.

She returns to the bed and bends down towards him, large breasts like heavy sacks, and kisses him. It is almost a bite. Her teeth drag across his bottom lip.

It is dry, and begins to bleed.

_The female often begins by biting off the head of the male._

A year passes. Then two.

She has had a child, and gives him her husband's name, as tradition dictates. She had wanted to name him _Ozymandias_, king of kings, but she is not one to scorn traditions.

Her son bloats her with pride. There is no doubt that he will be great, and for a time, this simple knowledge that her firstborn is a fitting heir keeps her sated. She floats through the house like a massive queen, magnanimous and unwelcoming.

She begins to notice her husband's slipping rank, his slowly dwindling finances. And she fears that she is deflating. Slowly slipping back into small nothingness.

She spends her nights brooding beside him. Black orbs staring into blackness, forbidding rest. She hears his breathing and is repulsed.

She does not sleep.

One cold morning, she slips from the bed like a spectre and wraps herself in a thin silk robe. Like an icy wind, she descends the stairs and stops the house elf bearing two cups of coffee on a platter. She tells it to return them to the kitchen, and she follows. She has a small vial of doxycide in her pocket, and she pours it into one of the cups. It swirls, black on black, and is lost within moments, the foul smell nullified by a whispered incantation.

She mounts the stairs like a great animal and pushes the door open silently. Her husband is only just stirring. She greets him with a smile that does not reach her eyes. He doesn't notice.

Over time, he has grown afraid of looking at her face. It is too unkind. Her red lips always half open, poised to devour, showing the barest hint of dangerous white teeth. Her high cheekbones like knives, and her black eyes that remain empty. She is a monster of pride.

"Happy anniversary, darling," she murmurs, and hands him the coffee.

* * *

**This was inspired in part by a line in Molly Keane's novel _The Rising Tide: _"**Lady Charlotte French-McGrath mounting the stairs in her daughters' wake was a shocking despot, really swollen with family conceit and a terrifying pride of race.**"**

**Thoughts?**


	16. Blood

**Written for _my _'quotes remix' challenge at xoxLewrahxox's forum. **

**Prompt: **write a fic of 100, 500 or 1,000 words based on or including a quote from any other forum member's stories.

**100 words.**

* * *

**XVI: Blood**

* * *

"Blood is like water, Alecto. Always finds its own level," from_ Devouring, _by Expecting Rain

* * *

There are three in the marble foyer. One is a woman with predatory eyes. One is just a young boy. One is a man lying face down in a pool of slick and sticky blood.

The boy is silent.

He watches trails of red ooze their way across the pristine floors, out past the wide-flung doors and down the steps.

He recalls his mother shouting in the early morning, remembers the words _Mudblood,_ _whore_ and _cheating_.

He watches his step-father's blood going _down, down, down_. He thinks it will mix with the dirt, and wonders if that's what _Mudblood_ means.

* * *

**Thoughts?**


	17. Falter

**Written for my 'quotes remix' challenge at xoxLewrahxox's forum.**

**Prompt: **write a fic of 100, 500 or 1,000 words based on or including a quote from any other forum member's stories.

**100 words.**

* * *

**XVII: Falter**

* * *

"Everything had to end except sisterhood. That was forever," from_ Illusions, _by nigerutmea anima

* * *

Bellatrix laughs. That disgusting blood traitor housewife is whipping spells indiscriminately at her. She can even see Molly's old tattered clothes bulging and shifting, fat roiling from the effort.

It's not much work for Bellatrix to block her spells; she takes this as an opportunity to catch her breath, letting her eyes wander, only half paying attention.

Somewhere in the distance behind Molly, a mirror has broken, and from the corner of her eye, Bella sees the hint of her reflection.

It looks like Andromeda, blurred around the edges.

Bellatrix falters, and in that moment marries herself to her downfall.

* * *

**Thoughts?**


	18. Vision

**Written for my 'quotes remix' challenge at xoxLewrahxox's forum.**

**Prompt: **write a fic of 100, 500 or 1,000 words based on or including a quote from any other forum member's stories.

**The line, "**'Ah, I thought you'd find me,"'she said, smiling. 'I'm surprised it took you this long, actually.'**" is taken from _Break Down _by Lamia of the Dark. (and edited slightly to fit the present tense.)**

**500 words.**

* * *

**XVIII: Vision**

* * *

Before Severus Snape closes his eyes for the last time, he has a vision.

The dark and dank around him slowly bleaches white; everything but Harry's eyes, so like his mother's, dissolves into the mist. Then slowly, slowly, the mist begins to clear, and he sees some empty paradise solidify around him.

He doesn't want to tear his eyes away from those green ones, but the paradise calls to him. No breath of wind stirs the long grasses, and yet a multitude of dandelion clocks float serenely through the air, like summer snow.

When he looks back, Lily's eyes are no longer there, but in the distance he sees a figure that, even so far away, he knows is hers. She is dressed in a lacy white dress, as simple and pure as befitting an angel.

She seems to float to him, arriving quickly to his side, even though each moment feels like an eternity.

"Ah, I thought you'd find me," she says, smiling. "I'm surprised it took you this long, actually."

He lets out a breath he hadn't known he was holding.

"Lily…" he whispers, reaching out a hand to touch her. _One last time._

But she shifts backwards and shakes her head.

"You've done such a good job with him, Severus," she says, still with that perfect smile on her lips. "You've been so wonderful…all these years…" the smile falters for the briefest of moments.

"Lily…" Severus has never been so lost for words. Only her name passes his lips. He wants to say it a thousand times, to make up for the years of never allowing himself to speak it. Once more. "_Lily._"

She smiles, but there is only sadness in her eyes.

"Lily, I…" every weary bone in his body sings with the aching desire to speak the words that have guided him for all these years, but they die weakly in his throat.

Instead, he looks at her – hoping beyond all hope that his eyes will speak the words that he cannot.

"I know," she whispers. "I've always know."

He wonders if his heart can swell and break at the same time.

Then he sees blackness creeping along the edges of his vision. Lily notices too, taking a step backwards.

There are so many things he wants to ask, but settles on, "Lily, is this…is this real?"

She only smiles at him, a smile even sadder than the last, and shakes her head almost imperceptibly.

"Let me touch you," he says, "_please._"

The darkness has almost devoured everything.

She reaches a hand out, and just as her fingers brush his, the blackness consumes them.

In the dying light, Lily's voice echoes, "You've been so good, Severus. So, so, good."

Then a last rattling, laboured breath is expelled from his lungs, and with it the vision fades and dies until only Lily's eyes remain.

Then they too fade to black, and his last earthly act is to close his eyes on tears that will never fall.

* * *

**Thoughts?**


	19. Tuer

**Written for the 'OTP' challenge at xoxLewrahxox's forum.**

**Prompt: **choose from one of these three scenarios to incorporate your OTP into.

_1# A hotel is the location, blood is thicker than water is the theme. A dictionary is an object that plays a part in the story._

_2# A lift is the location, shyness is the theme. A picture frame is an object that plays a part in the story._

_3# A bus stop is the location, threat is the theme. A camera is an object that plays a part in the story_

**Many infinite thanks to Azzie (Inkfire) for providing me with a very mad French name indeed.**

* * *

**XIX: Tuer**

* * *

Bellatrix, Rodolphus, and Avery swept up the marble steps of The Empyrean, the most exclusive Wizarding hotel, perhaps in all of Europe. A handful of attendant elves scampered around their feet, offering flutes of champagne to the guests in the lobby. Bellatrix kicked one out of the way, and it stumbled, spilling the champagne and breaking the crystal.

One of the guests, whom she recognized as a prominent anti-violence activist, stood up to chastise her, but she silenced him with a dark glare.

The three approached the reception desk and were greeted by a middle aged witch whose greying hair was pulled back into a severe knot. "How might I help you, today?" she asked.

Bellatrix smiled sweetly. "We're here to see our dear friend," she lowered her voice, "the Minister of the Interior."

The receptionist's eyebrows rose a fraction. "Ma'am, I'm quite sorry, but I don't believe..."

"Thibault de Bragelonne?" Bellatrix interrupted. "I do believe he's staying here for the week. I don't think my cousin would give me false information like that," she said with a small laugh.

The receptionist rifled through some papers, then looked up at them. "Yes, of course, he is staying here. My apologies, ma'am. Might I have your names?"

"My name is Bellatrix Black, this is my fiance, Rodolphus Lestrange, and my cousin-"

The receptionist saw Avery and smiled. "Ah yes, I remember you," she said. "Three weeks in the Phoenix suit, wasn't it?"

He laughed uncertainly. "Um, yes, that was me..." He had left the room in a state of disrepair after his stay.

"Lovely to see you again," she said. "The Honourable Mr Thibault de Bragelonne is staying in room 703. Take the lift to the seventh floor. His room will be on your left."

They nodded their thanks and left the lobby.

"Merlin," Rodolphus said with a half laugh. "I can't believe she believed that. How would we know the French Minister of the Interior? They let any idiot have a job these days. I'd bet she was even a half blood."

Neither Bellatrix nor Avery found need to reply.

The lift rumbled to a halt at the seventh floor, and the doors opened with a musical charm.

"This is it," Bellatrix said, motioning to the door upon which the number 703 was engraved. "Avery, you stand watch."

He nodded, facing the hall as Bellatrix whispered a complex series of spells that resulted in the doorknob turning to ash and falling into a soft pile before them.

She pushed the heavy door open and ented the room. It was as large, perhaps, as the formal dining room at Black Manor, outfitted with a two couches, a chaise longue and a number of large paintings on the walls. Another door on the right ostensibly led to the Minister's bedchambers.

She put a finger to her lips and crossed the room to that door; already standing ajar, she pushed it open without hesitation and ran her eyes over the room.

It, too, was empty.

Bellatrix made a noise of annoyance. She flicked her wand at the mahogany bedside table and the drawers burst outwards, papers and trinkets thickening the air and littering the ground. A heavy book fell to the floor, binding broken, and a paper weight shattered.

She picked up the book with an almost amused snort. It was a French-English dictionary.

She flipped through absently.

_Kill: (vtr) tuer_

A hushed sound outside caused her to whirl around, dropping the book and reaching instinctivly for her wand.

She slipped back to where she had left Rodolphus, only to see he was shooting spell after rapid spell at the Minister. Rodolphus was winning, of course. She never doubted that he would, but she decided to give him some help nonetheless.

"Avada Kedavra," she snapped coldly, watching as the Minister fell motionless to the floor, hitting his head on the corner of a table.

Blood trickled out and stained the carpet.

Rodolphus turned to look at her. "Took you long enough," he said. "What were you doing in there?"

She sneered at him. "Let's just make this look natural, alright? We have a ball this evening and Narcissa will throw a fit if I'm not back to let her decide how to do my hair."

Rodolphus rolled his eyes and levitated the body. "Where's the bathroom?"

"Merlin, Rod, is this really the time?"

"Don't be daft, Bellatrix. It's not unheard of for people to slip in the shower, you know."

She pursed her lips. "It's off the bedroom," she said, motioning towards the other door. "I'll be right there."

Rodolphus and the floating body of the dead Minister left her alone to mutter cleaning spells over the carpet.

Blood, she had learned, was notoriously hard to remove; but like all thing she put her mind to, she had become an expert at it.

"All done, Rodolphus?" she asked when she saw him leave the room.

He nodded.

"Are you sure?" she asked, pushing past him into the bathroom

"Yes I'm sure," he snapped.

"Really? Because how many people shower fully clothed, without any water? Take off his robes, Rodolphus. I'm sure it won't be the first time you've seen a member of Parliament naked."

"I have no idea what you're implying, Bellatrix," he said.

She snickered but gave no response.

A few minutes later, the dead Minister was lying naked under a stream of warm water, blood swirling into the drain.

"Done?" Bellatrix asked.

"Almost. My hands are covered in his blood. Turn on the tap for me, would you?"

He leaned over the sink and put his hands under the faucet expectantly. Reaching around him, she pumped a dollop of soap onto his hands and turned on the water.

"Bellatrix?"

"Hm?"

"Don't you think it's funny, the way blood always sinks to the bottom in a pool of water?"

"Not really, no," she said. "Blood is thicker than water; it's just the way it is."

He brought one warm, wet hand up to her cheek. "How did you get blood all the way here?" he murmured, running his thumb along her skin.

She shook him off and wiped her cheek with the back of her hand.

"The Dark Lord will be pleased with this," she said. Her fingers absently traced the Dark Mark through her sleeve. "Very pleased..."

Rodolphus shut off the tap abruptly. "I'm done," he said. "Let's go."

* * *

**It may be somewhat unclear here, so the OTPs are both unrequited Bellatrix/Rodolphus on Rod's side, and unrequited Bellatrix/Voldemort on Bella's.**

**And for any of you who follow this series, I'm awfully sorry that I haven't been writing much lately. Writer's block is the absolute bane of my existance.**

**Thoughts? Do tell.**


	20. Passion

**This is part of my continuing saga of Mrs Zabini, and can be read as a sequel to "Devour", chapter 15.**

**It is also a Harry Potter-ized retelling/adaptation of the story of the Wife of Bath's fifth husband, from _The Canterbury Tales _(hence the epigraph.) But obviously you don't need to go read that to make sense of this. (I never even finished it, so there you go.)**

**And finally, I would just like to point out that I _in no way_ condone any relationship like the one presented here.**

* * *

**XX: Passion**

* * *

"...that though he had me beat on every bone,  
He could win again my love anon,  
I think I loved him best, for that he  
Was of his love dangerous to me."

-Chaucer's "The Wife of Bath's Tale", lines 511-513, from _The Canterbury Tales_

* * *

Mrs Zabini always wakes late in the day, slowly rising from the bed, swathed in purple, like a heavy spectre. Her husband is always gone by the time she awakens, and all she has to remember him by is the tangle where his body lay, and the thick scent of his musk and cologne. She says she prefers this to seeing him.

When she comes to bed at night, so much later than he, her husband is already asleep, snoring, perhaps, and looking more angelic than by daytime. Although she knows he is asleep, and would never know, she refuses to look at him. She wants to, though she tells herself, fiercely, that she does not. She wants to see the way his hair falls across his face, and let her eyes linger, perhaps, on the curve of his lips, or the hard line of his jaw, or the strong arms that know violence so well.

But she refuses to allow herself this weakness, when she knows he would never let his eyes linger over her.

They have not kissed since their wedding day, and she tells herself she doesn't mind.

His arms are strong, and his jaw is always set in a hard line, and his lips are always slightly parted, as if to devour some silent, spectral prey. She sees herself in him; in his cold and empty eyes, in his every deliberately calculated movement. But she never tells him these affinities; she knows he thinks less of her. She knows that any word equating herself to him would be seen as a slight. She tells herself she should not mind insulting him.

The more he stays away from her, the more she desires him. But she is too proud to beg; too proud, even to ask, lest she be denied. Her stomach twists and her jaw clenches, and she refuses to imagine that he would kiss her. She hates her imagination.

Some nights she sees him in his study. Some nights she even entertains the thought of entering. And on very few occasions, she does. He is never happy to see her, she is certain. But the desire to see him hurts her until, at last, she gives in.

She is never timid but around him. She lowers her gaze and says she's so, so sorry for interrupting, but would he like a coffee? Firewhisky? Even though she knows the elves would have already brought him some if he desired it.

His answer is always no, and she hesitates before asking if he would like any company. This question hurts her to ask, because she knows the answer will always be no. But still she lingers a few moments in the room, so reluctant to leave, even though she thinks she hates him. She hates him so much she doesn't know what to do with herself, with her emotion.

Sometimes, if he is drunk, he takes his hand to her. She refuses to cry out, or let her eyes moisten, though sometimes they do in spite of herself. She tells herself she hates him when he does this. But she relishes his touch - any touch. And her tears come from a pain that is not entirely physical.

She hates herself more than she hates him.

Her husband is a handsome man, classically so. She cannot think of any witch who would not at least give him a second look. She knows her husband relishes this. She has no evidence, none at all, except her hatred and his beauty, but she knows he must be cheating on her.

She hates this most of all. She is beautiful - she knows she is beautiful, more than anything else - but still her husband cannot touch her, cannot care for her, though they are so alike, so perfectly alike. And when she hates herself, and hates him, she diverts her attention to other men. They adore her with sweet and desperate passion, a carnal love that sickens her. But every kiss from another man who isn't her husband satisfies her. She wishes he could see her in the throes of passion, so that perhaps then he might realize she is as desirable as he. The thought of him seeing her with another man is what brings her to climax; she orgasms on her desperate hatred.

When she sees herself in the mirror, she sees beauty with an empty gaze. Her eyes have always been empty, she knows, but as her list of nameless lovers grows, her eyes take on the deadness of a whore's. She wonders if her husband has ever noticed this.

She is never careful with her lovers. Birth control is something she does not bother with. If they forget to use a condom, she makes no effort to stop them. She knows how irresponsible this is, but she thinks she wants to become pregnant by another man, that through this, she might finally show her husband how little she cares for him.

But she does become pregnant, and she is only full of terror. She doesn't know who the father might be, and she is too afraid to act. For two days, she refuses to leave the bedroom. On the third morning, she has accepted a quiet calm, and descends the stairs to tell her husband that she has become pregnant with another man's child.

He takes a hand to her then, and for the first time, she cries out.

She does not care for the child growing inside her, and that night, she enters his study with no question of drinks or company.

She says, "I hate you." He looks up from his paperwork, unfazed. "I hate you," she says again, "but if you want me to get rid of it, I will."

He remains silent, and her body shakes with emotion. She wants to cry.

"I hate all of them. I hate _everyone!_" she screams the last word and punctuates it by throwing a vase to the floor. It is the most emotion she has displayed, perhaps in years.

She is breathing heavily, but silent now, and he says, emotionless, "You're a pathetic whore. I expected nothing more from you."

She does cry at this. She wants to hit him, hold him, kill him. She doesn't know what she wants, only that it isn't this.

She thinks she hears him telling her to leave, but if she knows only one thing, it's that even now she never wants to leave him. She shakes and cries and repeats her hatred for him a thousand times until eventually a house elf escorts her away.

That night, she takes her wand to herself, and contemplates murder, suicide. She doesn't know who the father of the thing growing inside her is, and she doesn't care. She relishes the pain of killing it, and she hates herself more than ever.

When her husband comes upstairs hours later, she tells him what she's done. She doesn't know what she wants his reaction to be, nor what she was expecting, but silence is not it.

She begins to cry again, and for the first time, she hits him. She hates him. She is certain, for the first time, that she only hates him. She shakes and digs her nails into the arms pinning her to the wall. She shakes and cries and screams that she hates him.

When he lets go of her, she slumps to the floor and cries. She tells herself she hates him, but when he leaves the room, she wants to beg him to stay. She wants to clutch at the hem of his robes and beg for his forgiveness. But she does nothing, and many hours later, she falls into sleep.

Her husband does not return for three days. Each hour he stays away, she grows more fretful. She paces the house, refuses guests, and drinks nothing but tea, ice cold, long after it was made.

On the fourth day, he returns home. She does not know where he had gone, and refuses to ask, though the question burns her. That he may have been with another woman would not surprise her, but the thought hurts more than she would ever admit.

When he walks through the door, her heart swells, and she hates herself for it. She wants to tell him she loves him - she doesn't even know if it's true, but she wants to say it. She wants to tell him she is sorry. But she is still too prideful. She knows he would not accept apologies. And she knows he does not love her.

She hates herself for wishing he would kiss her.

She can't bring herself to speak to him, and he remains as silent as ever. The weight of his silence begins to break her, and she knows that if she were not so proud, she would beg for him - anything of his.

She has never felt love, and begins to wonder if this might be it. When she is alone, she rolls the word off her tongue. It does not please her as much as she had thought it would; it is too weak a word for whatever she feels. No, she decides, she does not love him.

He no longer hits her, and she hates herself for wishing he would. Sometimes at night she touches his hand with hers. Just a finger bumping gently against his, almost accidental. She grows more brazen with time, and one night, she awakens from a fitful sleep to a beam of moonlight across his face. And she kisses him.

He does not awake, though she wishes he would.

Months pass, and slowly she begins to return to normal. Men still wish to sleep with her, and she no longer denies them. Her eyes once again lose the passion that possessed them.

She returns home at night to silence that she says no longer affects her. She assumes her husband has mistresses as well, and consoles herself with the fact that she is no worse than he.

The marriage lasts three years - her longest - and ends only when he dies. There is an attack at the Ministry, with seven casualties. Her husband is one of them.

When she hears of his death, the cup she is holding shatters to the ground. This is the fifth man who has died married to her, and the only man for whom she truly cries. The son from her first marriage, little Blaise, now in his third year at Hogwarts, is brought home for the funeral where, although he has until now held his true father's name, he is given the surname _Zabini._ The name of her fifth husband.

Bitter, angry, and full of hatred, she marries two men in close succession. Both die shortly after the marriage, and Blaise is fatherless by the end of his fourth year.

Mrs Zabini retains her beauty, her status, her money. But her lovers fall away like chaff.

She visits her fifth husband's grave each year. She spits on it, cries on it, whispers her hatred to his rotting body, and wishes he had come back as a ghost.

She wishes she had been the one to kill him, and wishes he never died.

* * *

**Thoughts?**


	21. Cracks

**Written for Meira's 'first magic' challenge at xoxLewrahxox's forum. **

**Prompt: **write about the first display of accidental magic young wizards or witches have. The challenge is for "classical" magic - no Veela or Metamorphagi or anything like that.

* * *

**XXI: Cracks**

* * *

"Tom!" Mrs Cole snapped "Go to your room this instant!"

He looked up at her darkly, brow furrowing in anger, but did as she said, however unwillingly. He should _not_ have been punished for hitting Amy Benson. _She_ had been the one to take his train set.

He stomped up the stairs, making each exaggeratedly loud step resound through the orphanage and rattle the half decaying floorboards. Halfway up, he turned around to stick his tongue out at Mrs Cole's back – the worst act he could think of, at the moment.

He threw his door open, and with equal violence, slammed it shut. He was quivering with rage. _He should not have been punished. Amy should have been punished. Mrs Cole should be punished. _

He turned to face the door, shaking with his hatred, jaw set, lips twisted downwards.

And the wooden door cracked with a noise as loud as a gunshot.

It was so loud and sudden an occurrence that he forgot his anger for a moment. He stared at the black scar running from top to bottom, and knew instantly that he had caused it.

The door swung back a moment later, and Mrs Cole burst in. "Tom! What on Earth was that noise?"

She was too startled to be shocked by the calm expression on his face.

"The door," he said.

She gave him a questioning look.

"Close the door," he said.

She was too confused to berate him for his rudeness, and did as he said. When she saw the gash, she gasped.

"How did this happen?" she asked, whirling around to search the room for an explanation.

Tom shrugged, and wondered if he could do the same thing to Mrs Cole's exposed arm as he had with the door.

* * *

**Thoughts? Please do tell. **


	22. Purity and Shame

**Written for Meira's 'nature of magic' challenge at xoxLewrahxox's forum.**

**Prompt:** write a fic that discusses at some point something relating to the nature of magic - what it is, how it evolved, how it actually works, what Dark magic is - anything like that.

* * *

**XXII: Purity and Shame**

* * *

Something in Pollux Black's eyes seemed to forbid compassion. Under normal circumstances, his aunt Lysandra, the kindest of his relatives, would have put a comforting hand on his shoulder, perhaps given it a little squeeze, and let him know that everything would be all right. But today, he was glowering, stone-faced, at the tapestry before him, emulating his icy-eyed cousins. He had turned eleven two days ago, which only made the severity of this moment more real.

Great Grandfather Lycoris was speaking now, in his deep and booming voice.

"Children of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, we are gathered here today to bear witness to the purification of our lineage. It is with deeply shamed hearts," here his mother, fixed with Lycoris's piercing gaze, lowered her head, "That we are forced to take our places here before the tapestry which has been in our family for time immemorial. Since the very earliest of our days…"

Pollux tried to pay attention to his great grandfather, but his mind slipped away from the words resounding around him.

_He hears the rushed clicking of his mother's shoes against the black wood of the upstairs hall before he sees her. Downstairs in the library playing with his new wand, Pollux glances upwards and out the door, where he can see the banisters running along the corridors upstairs. The archway to the library blocks all but her long black robes, billowing around her as she runs towards the east wing, and his father's study – the one place only his father is traditionally allowed. Pollux stares out the door for some moments after his mother has passed from view. He hears her running, then the sound of the door being hastily thrown open – without knocking. He hears an angry cry – his father's, he assumes – before it is cut off by the slamming of the door. He hears nothing more after that, perhaps because they have sealed the room for silence._

_Pollux is bemused, but not curious. After a moment, he returns to shooting streams of blue fire from his wand. _

•••

_Pollux goes upstairs some half hour later, earlier events nearly forgotten. Halfway to his room, he hears voices emanating from his younger brother's playroom. Two he recognizes as belonging to his mother and father, but two others are alien to him. They are male, and their accent is one he recognizes as being vaguely foreign, to the extent that Ireland could be foreign to a young English boy. He enters the room without knocking, and his father whirls to face him._

"_Pollux! What are you doing in here?"_

_He has no real answer for this. "What's going on?" he asks, looking between his mother, father, and the two foreign men. _

"_Take the boy to his room and tell him," Cygnus instructs his wife icily._

_Violetta lowers her gaze and says, "Come, Pollux."_

•••

_In his room, his mother gestures for him to sit on the bed, and seats herself beside him._

"_What's going on, Mother?"_

_Violetta sighs heavily, and Pollux notices tear tracks on her cheeks. "Marius…" she begins, "Marius is…" she closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. "Pollux, your brother is a squib."_

•••

"_Do you remember Article Three of the Dead Scrolls?" his tutor asks. _

_Pollux nods dutifully. "Yes."_

"_Recite it for me, please."_

_Pollux closes his eyes and says, "At the moment of conception, the magical essence is passed through the mother to the child. Only children whose mothers are witches may themselves be considered wizards or witches. Any other child is a Muggle. If the child of such a union finds itself in possession of a magical essence, true wizards and witches are to be wary, for such children are the result of unholy deviations, and cannot be accepted."_

"_And do you remember the Tenth Amendment?"_

_He nods. "Children born to at least one parent of magical lineage may be considered wizards or witches. All other children, whether in possession of the magical essence or not, are to be considered Muggles."_

_His tutor smiles at him. "Very good, Pollux. You're learning well."_

_Pollux furrows his brow. "But Sir, if magic passes through the mother, then why would they be a Half-Blood if their father is a Muggle?"_

_His tutor nods. "That's a very good question, Pollux. You see, magic passes through the mother, but magic is not the only thing necessary to be a witch or wizard. You need a man and a woman to make a child, yes?" Pollux nods. "Well you also need a witch and a wizard to make a proper Pureblooded child. You see, magic passes through the mother, but reason, and the mind, passes through the father. Think of magic like…passion and emotion. If you have no reason, you can't control your feelings, and you'd go mad. Well, just the same, if you have no reason, you can't properly control your magic. Understand?"_

_He nods._

•••

"_Father, what happens to squibs?" Pollux is still quite young, and curious._

_His father frowns at him. "Why would you ask that?"_

_He shrugs. "I'm just wondering, Father."_

_Cygnus sighs. "I suppose you're old enough to hear now. Come." Pollux enters the library and sits beside his father. "Do you remember when I told you about the Forbidden Forest at Hogwarts?" Pollux nods. "According to tradition, the tradition that all Pureblood families uphold, squibs are sent there when their…affliction… is discovered."_

"_Is that why it's forbidden, Father? Because squibs are living there?"_

_His father laughs darkly. "They don't live there for very long, Pollux."_

•••

"…As a family, we are all shamed by the aberration which has been afflicted upon us. Nevertheless, we may rid ourselves of that shame, and in turn purify our minds and our lineage, by purging ourselves of the scum which has heretofore resided among us…"

•••

_Pollux is woken by his brother screaming in the middle of the night. He is silenced quickly, but the sound of boots through the corridors and down the stairs keeps him up a few minutes longer._

_He squeezes his pillow tightly and forces himself to remember that his brother – no, _that boy –_ isn't really a wizard._

•••

Lycoris raised his wand and said, "With this spell, we beseech you, Merlin, to cleanse our line and make us pure once more." His great grandfather spoke a word in an ancient tongue, and a jet of black fire shot from the tip of his wand to the place where Marius Black's name and face once shone from the tapestry.

From the corner of his eye, Pollux could see his mother's lowered head, and was ashamed.

* * *

**I don't think I've ever been so influenced by another text while writing before. And if any of you have read _The Chrysalids_, you may have noticed that too.**

**Thoughts?**


	23. Birthday Present

**Written for Lady Eleanor Boleyn's 'birthdays' challenge at xoxLewrahxox's forum. **

**Prompt: **write a story involving one or more Harry Potter characters and a birthday celebration of some sort!

**This is dedicated lovingly to the wonderful Gamma Orionis, for her help with pulling me out of the horrid gutter of writer's block. Thank you, Gammaloo! **

**200 words.**

* * *

**XXIII: Birthday Present**

* * *

The snake stares blankly up at her, green body unmoving on the dusty floor. Merope gets on her knees before it, leaning on her elbows to look at it more closely.

She picks up the limp adder and carries it to the kitchen table. She coils the body, resting the head on the top of a dirty cup, looking at her. She pulls out a wobbly chair and sits down.

She stares at it intently, brow furrowed in concentration. It twitches.

_Magic._

She nudges the head with a finger. "Sing, snakey."

Nothing happens.

"_Sing_, stupid snakey!"

Its dead eyes continue to stare at her, and Merope makes a face. The snake won't sing, but she gets an idea. Once, she saw a woman wearing a fox over her shoulders. The head bit the tail.

She picks up the snake and wraps it around her bony frame, prising the jaws apart, closing it again on the end.

She grins lopsidedly, baring yellowed, crooked teeth. Her chapped lips begin to bleed.

"Birthday present," she whispers, petting the head.

Morfin enters the room to see his sister smiling.

"_You look stupid_," he hisses, and hits her so hard she crashes to the ground.

* * *

**Thoughts? Please do tell. **


	24. A Day

**Written for my 'times of the day' challenge at xoxLewrahxox's forum.**

**Prompt: **set or focus your fic at a specific time, be that either an exact hour (X o'clock) or something more vague, like afternoon. The time can be either a prominent feature, or just a subtle reference, as long as it's included.

**Six 100 word drabbles.**

* * *

**XXIV: A Day**

* * *

**Dawn – Loss **

Beside her, the mattress surged – a sea of bedding – and Lucius slipped out. Narcissa opened her eyes.

"Go back to sleep," he whispered.

"What-?"

"I've been called."

Narcissa shifted closer to him, to take his hand, his arm, anything.

He pressed a kiss onto the crown of her head. "Sleep."

She looked at him through exhausted eyes. In the pre-dawn light, he looked ethereal. His face was wan, but his hair seemed to shine.

"I'll come back," he murmured. "_Sleep_."

But Narcissa couldn't. She leaned against the headboard with one hand on her swollen stomach, the other on her heart.

**Morning – Unease **

"You look like a balloon."

Narcissa glared.

"It's funny," Bellatrix continued, "because it's like you should float away, but you can barely get off the ground."

"Hilarious."

Bellatrix smiled crookedly around her cup.

"Lucius was called away this morning."

"Mm."

"Do you know anything about that?" Narcissa asked, leaning forward. Her sister looked up sharply. "Do you know when he'll be back?"

"No."

Narcissa bit her lip, frowning at her tea. "Sometimes, Bella, I just wish he had never-"

"Are you sure you want to finish that sentence?"

Overhead, a tern wheeled and screamed, black against the late morning sun.

**Midday – Anxiety **

The child kicked. Narcissa put a hand to her stomach and pushed away her food, half eaten.

"Mistress would like different food?"

Narcissa scowled. _Mistress would like you to shut up._

"No, Bitty."

The elf bowed repeatedly. "Forgive Bitty, Mistress, but Bitty think Mistress should eat more, for the baby…"

"I'm not hungry, and neither is he."

She suddenly felt very swollen and heavy. Her stomach surged. She clenched her jaw.

Hot light spilled in through the windows, glaring against the silverware.

"I'm…not used to eating so early. Bring something later."

From another room, a clock began to strike noon.

**Afternoon – Fear **

Her bracelet jangled. One of the charms struck the lip of her teacup, and the porcelain rang. Sharp daggers of sunlight slanted in, slicing across the desk.

_Mrs Parkinson,_

_My husband and I were delighted – _

She shoved the quill into the inkwell impatiently, pushing the missive aside.

The child kicked.

It was late afternoon, and she still had no word from Lucius.

She rose. It was impossible to concentrate with the child writhing, and she was shaking with a nearly uncontrollable urge to tear the letter apart and smash the inkwell.

_Hormones,_ she told herself, and left the room.

**Evening – Longing **

Swatches of lavender and rose coloured the late evening sky. Narcissa stood at the end of a garden path, staring outwards, upwards, looking for something far beyond her gaze.

The silence rang loudly in her ears, only to be shattered by a crack beside her.

Narcissa flinched.

"Forgive Bitty, Mistress, but Mistress should not be outside. Weather is cold."

Narcissa gazed blankly at the elf for a long moment. "No," she said eventually. "Make a tea, I'll be in shortly."

The elf Disapparated, and Narcissa returned her gaze to the horizon, where still nothing moved but the slowly setting sun.

**Night – Relief**

Cold shards of moonlight illuminated the eiderdown. Narcissa could feel the icy luminescence arching across her swollen stomach, slitting her face diagonally.

Nausea swelled within her, and she closed her eyes.

From somewhere on the grounds, Narcissa could feel the wards shift, allowing a presence in.

_Lucius. _

Her stomach leapt, and for a moment she felt sicker. She breathed deeply, calming herself, waiting.

Minutes passed before the door creaked open.

"Narcissa?"

A bloodstain marred his robes; a cut, his face. He was at her side in an instant, shaking against her.

"Lucius," she whispered, stroking his matted hair. "Oh, Lucius."

* * *

**Thoughts?**


	25. Muggle Cigarettes

**Written for my 'Muggle artefacts' challenge at xoxLewrahxox's forum.**

**Prompt: **write a fic in which one or more characters come into contact with a Muggle artefact. It can either play a prominent role or just be obliquely mentioned, so long as it's there.

**500 words.**

* * *

**XXV: Muggle Cigarettes**

* * *

"What do you think?" Narcissa asked, leaning towards the mirror and inspecting her hair. She glanced towards Violetta Parkinson, lounging on her bed. "Well?"

"It's nice," Violetta said, flicking her eyes up lazily from her copy of Witch Weekly.

Narcissa turned around, half glaring and half pouting, about to chastise her friend for not paying enough attention, when the door burst open and Rexella Bletchley exploded into the room in a splash of flying robes and breathless, excited laughter. The two fourth years looked up at the third member of their dormitory.

"Black! Parkinson! You'll never _guess_ where I just was."

Narcissa and Violetta shared a look.

"Where were you, Bletchley?" Narcissa asked, returning to inspecting herself in the mirror.

She grinned. "You know that disgusting Weasley boy we have Charms with?" The two made vague noises of assent. "Well you know how he's always going on about all the Muggle things he has?"

Violetta made a face. "Merlin, yeah! It's bloody annoying!"

"_Well,_" Rexella continued, "I was just in his dormitory –"

"Probably the only girl to ever be," Narcissa mumbled.

"– And you know how proud he is of all his stupid Muggle things? Well, he'll have less to be proud of now!" Triumphantly, she pulled a handful of things out of her robes and tossed them onto the boudoir before Narcissa.

"Oh!" she shrieked, leaping back. "Get them _away_ from me!"

Rexella snorted. "You won't turn Muggle by touching them, Cissa."

"What are they?" Violetta asked, leaning over them curiously and nudging them with her wand.

"A book, some plastic toy, this…I'm not sure what it is, a balloon of some sort? And a Muggle cigarette."

Violetta picked up the balloon. "This doesn't look like any sort of balloon I've seen, Rexie. It's not floating. It's not even got any air in it! It just looks like a round little white thing in a package."

Rexella shrugged. "There were a whole lot of them up there, so I opened one. I figure it must be a balloon, though it's in a weird sort of shape."

Gingerly, Narcissa plucked the cigarette. "And this? It doesn't look like a normal cigarette."

"It's not, it's a _Muggle_ one," Rexella said.

"But look at it! The paper is all wrinkled, and the ends look like they've been twisted up by hand!"

"Muggles are poor," Violetta supplied, "and have to make their own cigarettes."

That made sense, and she made no further comment.

"Shall we smoke it?" Rexella asked, withdrawing her wand.

"No!" Narcissa cried. "That's horrible! Muggle cigarettes…and they don't even smell like our own."

"Come on, Cissa, it won't kill you."

Rexella took it from her and lit it with the tip of her wand, inhaling deeply and coughing loudly. "Sweet Salazar, that's hot!"

"Here, Rex, let me try," Violetta said.

Narcissa made a face. "Merlin, it smells rancid! I don't know how Muggles could smoke anything so putrid."

Rexella shrugged. "It's not so bad, really. For a _Muggle_ cigarette."

* * *

**Don't do drugs, kiddies. ;)**


	26. Son of the Father

**Written for Azzie (Inkfire)'s 'rewriting' challenge at xoxLewrahxox's forum. **

**Prompt: **pick a specific element or a storyline from either a myth, a tale or any piece of literary work, and use it within a Harry Potter story.

**100 words.**

* * *

**XXVI: Son of the Father**

* * *

"And, behold, thou shalt conceive in thy womb, and bring forth a son …  
He shall be great, and shall be called the Son of the Highest."

Luke 1:31-2

* * *

Merope is not sure what her father put in her drink, but it makes her fall asleep at the table. She wakes up hours later, after feverish dreams, sore between her legs.

She dreams of a shining ghost who tells her that she will bear a son.

"_But I have never known a man!"_

"_You have. And you will bear his son. But behold-!"_ A potion appears before her. _"You will marry another man, and your son will take his likeness."_

She begins to protest, but he says, _"Fear not, Merope, for you have found favour with your father."_

* * *

**Yes, I'm going to hell. ;)**


	27. Song of Souls

**Written for Azzie (Inkfire)'s 'rewriting' challenge at xoxLewrahxox's forum.**

**Prompt: **pick a specific element or a storyline from either a myth, a tale or any piece of literary work, and use it within a Harry Potter story.

**Based on the story of Sigyn and Loki, from the _Prose Edda_ by Snorri Sturlson. **

**400 words**

* * *

**XXVII: Song of Souls**

* * *

The ocean seethed and roiled with such violent passion that it seemed as though it were waging war against itself, a wrathful beast bent on its own destruction. An army of waves loomed, only to crash and break. It was loud – so loud that the screams were drowned by the sound of that tempestuous war.

The black bars of her prison window did not stand out against the equally black sky, except in those briefest of flashes, when the sky split open to reveal the brightest paradise beyond.

Bellatrix could hear the rage in her bones, feel it in her ears, see it in her every breath, and taste it on her skin, slick with sweat, not rain. _Never slickened by rain._

"My Lord," she whispered in her sandpaper voice, "please, let me! Let me taste the water. My Lord, I am so thirsty…" It hurt her to implore him so – not only because her throat could not bear the vibrations.

The spectre of her Lord wavered by the window. _He is here! He was never gone, and he will save me!_

_I cannot,_ he said in the voice that had no sound.

Too impertinent to ask why. She slid up the wall, a shadow's shadow, and clutched the bars in her hands.

He was expansive. The wind and rain could not get through.

"_Please." _She choked on her desperation like soot.

He did not move for long minutes. She wished she could see his eyes, but the cloud of him obfuscated details. She was only certain it was him because she _felt_ it.

_I will be back._ The sound sang in her flesh, and he dissolved.

A splash of rainwater kissed her lips.

It was an unequalled joy. _I am so thirsty._ Her tongue devoured it, taking the wetness into the warm dry refuge of her mouth. She slipped to the ground in ecstasy. Eyes fluttered closed, body shaking, soul flying.

_My Lord, why? Why would you deny me this, my Lord?_ her spirit cried out to his.

The Dementors heard – did he? No – he would not let her suffer if he had.

They came to devour her, their own little raindrop. Her breath as she screamed was a volley of arrows into the night.

Their feast ended when he returned. _My Lord, why?_ she whispered with her mind.

His answer was too wide for words, but she understood.

* * *

**For the curious, the myth of Sigyn and Loki is (very briefly) Loki is bound on a rock, with a venomous serpent dripping acid onto his face. His wife, Sigyn, holds a bowl over him to catch the venom, but has to empty it when it gets full. In the time when she's gone, the venom drips onto his face, hurting him so badly that his agony causes earthquakes.**

**Thoughts? **


	28. Shatter, Break

**Written for and dedicated to Gamma Orionis (formerly Orgasmatron5000, tee-hee), because she is disgusting and requested voyeur!Dobby. **

**I don't know what it means about me that I actually wrote it...**

* * *

**XXVIII: Shatter, Break**

* * *

Something fell in the upstairs Floo room.

Dobby dropped his hand from the vase he was polishing and crossed the hall to investigate. The room should have been empty – as far as he knew (though he admitted that he did not know much) the Malfoys were not expecting any guests – and nothing should have fallen on its own.

The door stood only slightly ajar, and from behind it, he could hear hushed voices.

"– my _sister!" _one hissed.

Dobby peered around the door. His mistress's sister, Bellatrix, was there with her husband. He had his wand pointed at a candle holder which lay shattered on the ground at his feet.

"I told you not to touch anything!" she said.

The candleholder fused itself together and flew back to the mantle.

Rodolphus turned to her, his back to the doorway, and said something Dobby couldn't hear. Bellatrix rolled her eyes and began to push past him, but he grabbed her arm, trapping her with his own.

"You think you have any power over me?" she growled. "Well you're _wrong_."

She wrenched her arm free, but before she could do anything else, he grabbed her by the waist and pushed her into the wall, forcefully enough that the painting of the mountains beside her shuddered and tipped.

"You talk too much." His voice was so low, so deep, that Dobby could barely make out the words. He brought one of his hands to her throat, fingers right under her jaw, knuckles white, and he kissed her. And with his other hand he caught a struggling arm and pinned it to the wall, above her head. She tore at his robes with her free hand until finally he released her neck and pushed her hand under her robes.

He freed her mouth a moment, and she let out a breathy, almost mocking laugh. "Is that it? Is that the best you can do?"

He pulled his hand out from under her robes and hit her. Dobby saw a smear on her cheek, half shining when it caught the light.

"_Shut up_." He pushed three fingers into her mouth. Rodolphus leaned closer to her ear, and Dobby had to strain to hear what he said next. "Do you taste that? It's what a _whore_ tastes like."

She growled around his fingers, and when he pulled them out, she spat at him.

He hit her again.

Dobby couldn't help but gasp in horror. Startled, he brought his hands to his mouth, but it was too late.

Rodolphus whirled around, eyes dark, hand on his wand, and Bellatrix grabbed the candle holder which had fallen, throwing it at the door. "Get out!" she shrieked. "Get _out_, you filthy fucking elf!"

It hit the door, just by his head, breaking again as he scrambled away from it, them. He half expected one or both to follow, but neither did.

* * *

**Dobby is a bad elf. A very bad, naughty elf. I bet he _likes_ punishment. _Gross. _**

**Thoughts?**


	29. Ruination

**Written for Caitlin (Mrs Bella Riddle)'s 'flowers' challenge at xoxLewrahxox's forum.**

**Prompt: **write a fic that features a flower; metaphoric or an actual flower it does not matter it must just feature. Extra points for symbolism.

**400 words.**

* * *

**XXIX: Ruination**

* * *

There is a grove behind Black Manor where a field of wildflowers grow. They burst out of the bruise-purple moors like a rainbow.

It is Andromeda's favourite place on their property; she spends much of her time there, weaving daisy chains and dreaming. But Bellatrix hates it. She hates the way the sun breaks through the mist to illuminate the meadow, and she hates the way Andromeda looks so serene, and she hates the _smell_ of it, like too much perfume.

So one day, when Bellatrix emerges from the forest, hair knotted with leaves, knees scraped and muddy, and sees that Andromeda isn't sitting on her usual rock, she descends to the field.

The sweetness of the flowers assaults her. She likes the loamy smell of dirt, the hot richness of _green_. The bright and offensive honey smell of flowers – none of which she can name, but all of which she has decided she hates – sickens her.

She stands for a long moment, feeling hatred bubbling within her, until finally she knows what she has to do.

•••

The glasses Andromeda used to wear, when she was too young for a corrective spell, still rest in her room. Andromeda likes to keep things that _mean something_. Bellatrix doesn't. She loathes sentimentality, even at just a few days over eleven.

She takes them swiftly from their resting place – she doesn't know where Andromeda might be, and she doesn't care – and runs back to the field, muddy and sweaty and looking more like an urchin than an heiress.

The daisy chain Andromeda had made still rests on her favoured rock, beginning to wilt. Bellatrix looks up at the sun, squinting, then back at the white flowers, and points the lens of the glasses at them.

She doesn't have to wait long before a daisy begins to smoke. But they're still too wet, it seems, for them to burn.

She grits her teeth and furrows her brow, and then she hears something. Behind her, a few metres away, a few flowers have burst into flames. Her eyes glow as the fire spreads, and she understands that it's time for her to go.

She runs back to the Manor, where she can watch the field burn safely.

As it goes up in smoke, she can dimly hear the sound of a door opening, shutting, and Andromeda shouting something at her, but Bellatrix ignores it, smiling.

* * *

**Thoughts?**


	30. Azkaban

Written for the 'mental illness' challenge at xoxLewrahxox's Bellatrix Lestrange forum.

**Prompt: **write about a character or characters dealing with, coming into contact with, or otherwise engaged with some form of mental illness.

**Word count: **600 words, divided into two equal parts.

* * *

**XXX: Azkaban**

* * *

_Delusional parasitosis_

Bellatrix begins to realize she's getting old when blood no longer drips in dirty tracks down her legs. The spell she had used to keep her from bleeding stopped abruptly when her wand was broken, and for those first few months she had been a fretful teenager again.

Eventually she had begun to use the blood to paint the Dark Mark on the walls, but when the blood stops coming, she loses the one thing she had looked forward to.

She stares at her cunt, day after day, clawing at the tangle of hair, willing herself to bleed. But no blood comes anymore, and she screams as she drags her nails along the rough stone walls until they chip and break.

The flies come slowly.

As the days pass, she begins to feel their tiny legs dancing over her flesh. She swats them away, but they always return, until she swats one and three land in its place, and by the end of the week she's covered in a swarm of flies, all buzzing, humming, crawling over her, no matter what she does.

She doesn't dare to open her mouth, for fear the flies will crawl in and multiply inside her. But no matter how careful she thinks she is, it isn't enough, and soon she can feel the maggots writhing inside her.

Bellatrix screams and thrashes and tries to get the flies off her, but they don't – they won't. And the maggots continue to squirm inside her, burrowing from the inside out, until one night she wakes up in a cold sweat and sees that the flies have gone, but her flesh is bubbling and undulating from the larvae just under her skin.

And she shreds her skin, trying desperately to get them out as she screams and screams.

•••

_Le __Délire de négation_

In the cell next to hers, Rodolphus Lestrange is dead.

He believes his death began some weeks earlier, when, in a fit of agony as a Dementor spread its fetid, empty body over him, he hit his head against the jagged walls. He had had a chance to inspect the gash afterwards, and there was blood. Blood everywhere, staining his hands and matting his hair and slicking the ground.

He had torn apart his dirty clothes to dress the wound, but the blood seeped through, seeped through everything until eventually he is naked. He sits and cannot sleep because he bleeds so much – he wants to be awake when the bleeding stops. But it never does.

As the days pass, he begins to realize that he has died. No one can survive that much bleeding. His death blooms before him, engulfs him, and he suffers.

He has neither moved nor slept in nearly a week; when his limbs seize he barely notices – putrefaction, however, he does.

It starts slowly. He can see himself swelling, ballooning to absurd sizes as his skin bubbles and blisters. He passes his days watching the changes in his body, horrified and sickened and complacent, all at the same time. His nails fall off, one by one, leaving soft, discoloured flesh in their wake. They hit the ground and resonate quietly.

His body rots as he watches it, falling apart. When the Dementors visit him, he welcomes it as a brief reprise from his disintegration. He is dead, and as he stares at his increasingly unrecognizable corpse, he is certain that he deserves every agony of it. He doesn't enjoy his death, but he welcomes it.

So he sits naked in his cell, staring unblinkingly, unseeingly, sleeplessly, out the barred window, understanding that this is eternity.

* * *

**This will mark the final installment I'll be posting of 'Every Flavour'; I think 30 chapters is long enough, lest it become too daunting to look at. For everyone who's read and enjoyed this, thank you. Any final remarks will be accepted with love.**

**Those of you who have been following this, and who may be interested in reading more of my shorter works, should be on the lookout for my next, as-yet unnamed collection, which will be posted ... eventually. (Though hopefully sooner rather than later.)**


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